Reoccurring Nightmares
by CaptainEvie
Summary: One Shot. Post Reichenbach. His dreams always end the same way as of late... /Rated M for gore.


Guys, I'm sorry for taking so long on Borrowers. I literally have not had time to even sit down, I've been so stressed. School's almost out and then I'll have time to write. I'm still working on it, I promise, I just can't focus everything on it right now.

So enjoy this little depressing snippet in the meantime while you wait.

* * *

It could be a normal day at 221B Baker Street.

John sits in his chair, absently typing a new entry for his blog. Sherlock paces back and forth across the room, simultaneously muttering facts about the current case and cursing Mycroft's name for withholding information yet again. The television is on but remains ignored, the volume turned down. Two plates, one scraped clean and the other untouched, sit on the living room table. Sherlock occasionally stops, announces a possible lead, then quickly proves it wrong all in the same breath while John chides him from his chair.

It could be a normal day. But it's not. It never is.

It always begins when Sherlock claps his hands and gasps loudly; a breakthrough at last.

"Of course. No one noticed the snag in the rug. A rug of that quality and material, it would catch on things easily. But what if it caught the victim's shoe as he was being dragged away and no one noticed?"

John nods and puts his laptop down. Suddenly the desire to write has left him.

"That's great, Sherlock," he says.

"Great? No, it's brilliant! Don't you see, John?" He moves about excitedly, the scenario of how the crime was committed playing out in front of him in a way only he could see. "We might have a lead as to where the body was taken!"

"Sherlock…"

The other man does not hear him – or if he does it goes ignored – as he begins to put on his coat and scarf. He doesn't necessarily need it in this weather, but perhaps it is done out of habit.

John is staring at the floor. "This isn't right."

"Oh, come on John! There's no time to waste; we must get back to the crime scene and investigate. Hopefully Mycroft hasn't figured this out yet." He continues to gush about how mentally inferior his brother can sometimes be, but John is no longer listening.

"You're not even here, Sherlock."

He doesn't know if actually saying the words out loud acts as a trigger, but nevertheless he watches as his friend's face begins to bleed. Delicate streams of candy red flow from the detective's eyes, ears, mouth and nose. His hair mats on one side and coats the side of his face. John worries it might stain his coat, but realizes it's a foolish thought.

"John? Haven't you heard a word I've said?" Sherlock at last comprehends that his monologue has gone on unnoticed by his flat mate. He approaches the seated man and kneels down so they are at eye level. John still stares at the floor, not willing to look up just yet. "John, what's wrong?"

"You're not here," he whispers sadly.

"You seem a bit down. Did something happen?"

John forces himself to look into his friend's ruined face. The blood clashes horribly with his pale skin and blue eyes, making him look horrific. It looks so painful and grotesque, John fights back the urge to vomit. But of course Sherlock doesn't notice. How can he not see all the blood? "You died."

Sherlock takes John's hand gently. It is stone cold. "Tell me what happened," he urges. It is uncharacteristic how concerned, how coaxing his voice is. John takes a momentary comfort in this before taking a deep breath. He gives a withered smile.

"Nothing, Sherlock. I just… a close friend of mine passed away the other day."

"Oh. I'm very sorry to hear that." He frowns slightly, unsure of if he should perhaps comfort his friend in some way. "Do you want to talk about-?"

"No," he replies, a bit too quickly. "No, it's— it's fine. Let's just go check on the case, shall we?" John remains seated though.

Sherlock straightens. "Right then. I'll call Lestrade and tell him to have Anderson keep his nose out of our business this time." He walks out the door onto the landing and takes only a few steps before John hears a thud.

He tells himself to stay put. If he doesn't go and see, maybe it'll be alright. But that's not the way the dream ends. It has to end the same way as always. He can't wake up until it's over.

Shakily, John rises from the chair and slowly makes his way to the hall. Sherlock lies face down near the steps, right where he always lands. He doesn't move. John kneels down carefully and turns his friend over. The blood runs sideways now, just as it did that day at St. Bart's. He checks for a pulse the same way he did that day, but he already knows there is none.

He stares into blank blue eyes and waits for the nightmare to end.

John awakes to tears in his eyes that he somehow knew would be there. As he rubs them away and turns over to try and go back to sleep, he makes a mental note to have his sleeping medication refilled soon.


End file.
